Old Tricks
by Eleutheria Wolf
Summary: Wickham's up to his old tricks again. And Darcy would do anything for love.


"Up to your old tricks again, Wickham?"

George Wickham didn't move, only grinned amusedly at the fire burning nicely in the grate. Dear Mrs Younge, how nicely she had come through for him. She always had been very dependable. Their long ago flirtation had been nice as well.

"Why, Fitzwilliam, what an unexpected surprise. Did you need something?" Wickham drawled, smug wickedness in his eyes as he pivoted to face the dark figure in the doorway. Fitzwilliam Darcy, Wickham's old enemy, tensed at the familiar use of his name, and stepped forward into the firelight. His face was stony, as it always was when the two gentlemen met, and Wickham could not suppress a twinge of dislike. But even that hate was familiar, and he crushed it with ease, allowing a sly smirk to slip onto his face instead. Darcy seemed stiff and uncomfortable, but that didn't stop him from making his own bold reply.

"I would have thought you had learned your lesson. What possessed you, to lure the girl on so? She has no wealth to ease your debts, and Lord knows you think of little else besides," Darcy said calmly, but with an undertone of dislike that roused Wickham's fighting spirit and, as always, brought on a mocking grin. The two of them, like cats and dogs since the day they met. Darcy was always cold and angry, while Wickham teased and mocked. It was a script they had been playing out since they were children. It was an old, old dance.

"Now, now, Fitz, give credit where credit is due. I think of plenty besides my debts. For instance, I think of ruining your reputation quite a good deal. Besides, what makes you think you have the right to know my reasoning?" Wickham teased, his eyes bright with malice as he stood at ease, hands in his pockets. His posture was as loose and relaxed as if he was in his own home alone, instead of in a rented apartment with his worst enemy, as he strolled away from the fire and over to a window facing out over the city, leaning back against the sill with ease. His facade of amiability was, as always, nearly perfect, just as Darcy's stoniness was almost absolute. Inside, he was as tightly strung as a bow. But Darcy didn't react to the taunt, merely glared at Wickham with eyes dark with distaste. Wickham waited a moment, then shrugged. If the old stiff hadn't taken the bait to so obvious an invitation, then he must be serious, and taunting would do nothing but prolong the contact. Already Wickham's skin was crawling from it. The best thing would be to let him speak his peace, and then be gone back to the filthy rich world he had emerged from. But then, Wickham had never been good at the best thing.

"Well, if you must know, I was rather obligated to leave. I had some rather...pressing debts, among other things, and I thought it best to leave before things got... nasty. Sweet Lydia merely came along for the ride." His voice was flippant and dismissive, but now Wickham's tone turned cunning and sly. "But, ah, if you don't mind me asking... what's it to you?"

Darcy did not answer. Instead, he turned away from his old rival and neared the fire, removing a match from within a pocket and an elegantly carved pipe from another. Lighting the match on the fire, he lit his well-loved pipe and smoked it calmly for a moment or two. Wickham turned out to face the city, musing for a moment on the pleasant view, as he waited for the inevitable response. His mind was a turmoil, caught between the urge to taunt the other man, and the even more fervent urge to just throw him out all together. But he could do neither, yet. What was to come might be important, and Wickham lived forever in hope of finally being given his due.

"Let the girl go home, Wickham," Darcy sighed from his place by the fire. Wickham didn't bother turning around. This was easier when he didn't have to battle with the old hate that always rose in his throat at the sight of Darcy's face.

"I've done nothing to stop her," Wickham said idly. Darcy snorted in contempt.

"And nothing to send her on her way, either. Send her home." Wickham relaxed, sure that Darcy would see any tensing or other physical reaction to the order, but couldn't resist the urge to dig his fingers into the window sill. Mentally, he snarled at the command. This man wasn't his father, to order Wickham around. The very thought of taking his rival's orders made him writhe inside.

"Why should I? Even if she goes right home with no delay, the stain on her honor remains. No matter what I say, the gossips will be sure that she is tarnished, and rightfully so, as they have no guarantee either way. Just as with sweet Georgiana, eh?" He said silkily, a smirk on his face at the little petty revenge. Let that teach him to give Wickham orders. Darcy, however, did nothing.

"You didn't tarnish her," the man said simply, as if stating plain facts.

"How can you be so sure, Fitzwilliam?" Wickham said smoothly, drawing out the last syllable silkily and tracing the skyline over the city idly with his fingers, trying desperately not to tense his shoulders or back. He was playing with fire, and he knew it. Fitzwilliam Darcy loved his sister very dearly, and he had been furious and despairing those weeks after he learned that she had run away and very nearly eloped. Every moment that Wickham attacked her honor, he expected that famous temper to flare to life, and a dagger to come stabbing into his back. It was all he could do not spin around, place his back against the wall, and seize the first weapon he came upon. But then, he always felt like that around Darcy.

"Because," Darcy said without emotion, "If you had, I would have killed you. And you knew it."

And that was logic Wickham couldn't argue with, though he dearly wished he could. To admit that fear of Darcy had kept him from sealing the deal too soon was a mite painful. But then, he never was one to fight losing battles, or protest lost causes. So he merely shrugged, hummed a little noncommittally, and kept silent. Darcy would fill the emptiness soon enough.

"It… is true that the stain on her honor remains," Darcy said at last. Wickham didn't move, only listened and watched as the dusk faded along the roof tops of London. Let this play out to the end. Let him make the first concession. "If you will not consent to sending the girl home, then the only solution is that you must marry her." At this, Wickham finally pivoted around to face Darcy, who turned from the fire to stare in return. Wickham's next words were jolly, but both of them knew that he was as dead serious now as he had ever been. They were getting down to the heart of the thing.

"Marry that silly, penniless thing? I wouldn't dream of it. You know as well as I do that I need to marry a girl with money in order to pay off my debts. Unless..." Wickham paused here, a fake speculative look coming into his eye. It was no use. They both knew he'd been building up to this since Darcy first set foot in the room. "Unless, perhaps, someone else might be willing to pay for her."

"How much?" was all Darcy said. Wickham took care not to jump a little in surprise. He'd never expected that that would work! As far as he knew, Darcy had no great connection to or love of Lydia Bennet. In fact, sweet, obnoxious, empty-headed Lydia was exactly the kind of frivolous, silly person that Darcy loathed, Wickham was certain of that. So why was Darcy paying for her honor, bargaining on her behalf, most likely against her will no less? Then the memory of the rest of the family, five young, beautiful girls including Lydia, drifted through Wickham's head, and he grinned wickedly.

"We can discuss the details later, but now I must know. Which one is it?" Darcy said nothing, but Wickham, sure of his drawn conclusions, pressed on, seeking the taunt that would finally rouse his old enemy. "Jane, sweet, kind Jane, perhaps? She was pretty enough. Mary, the plain one? She seemed, at the very least, intelligent. I can't imagine silly Catherine or Lydia herself would interest you. Or perhaps..." Glee welled in his mind. Oh, no. He simply could not be so lucky as this. It was simply not possible that he had managed to flirt not just with the loveliest Bennet sister, but also, completely by accident, with the love of Darcy's life. It was simply too good to be true. If his grin were any wider, it would stretch off his face. "Or perhaps it is Elizabeth? Sweet, beautiful Elizabeth, who seemed so sure that you were nothing but an arrogant fool?"

A tense of Darcy's shoulders was all the answer that Wickham needed. He felt sky-high, floating on this little victory.

"Oh, yes, Elizabeth," Wickham drawled lazily, strolling away from the window in an arc around the room. Darcy did not move, only glared. "Sweet Elizabeth. She was so set against you. She once told me she found 'very disagreeable,' said you deserved to be 'publicly disgraced.' I do believe she might even hate you. Have you not found it so?" Wickham was delighted by the sight of Darcy gritting his teeth in a fierce grimace, and rejoiced in finally have found the way under his enemy's skin. He walked about the room as he spoke, gesturing and strolling, more alive than ever now that he was on the offensive.

"Why, yes, I do believe you have, my dear Fitzwilliam. Perhaps she's said as much? Rebuffed you in some way?" A low, animalistic growl, rumbling deep in Darcy's throat, was audible now over the crackling of the fire. His dark eyes were murderous, but Wickham was too full of his own success to care just then. He was an actor whose performance was going particularly well, and he grew more and more animated because of it. Upon receiving no answer, he halted quickly in place, bowed slightly to Darcy, and looked up at the other man with a mock-surprised expression, hands held out in the very picture of innocent shock. "She has then?" he continued, as innocent as a child, before a growing wicked smirk crossed his face and ruined it. "What was it then? A dance? A walk by moonlight? A kiss? Or don't tell me..." Honest shock crossed his face now. "Did she actually refused your hand in marriage?"

Darcy's face was furious, and he spun away quickly, facing the fire with his white-knuckled hands by his side and his spine too straight. Wickham gaped a moment, then burst into outright laughter, as happy as he had ever been, vicariously and viciously so. "You sly dog! Proposing, the great Fitzwilliam Darcy, and then being down-right rejected? What a blow!" Now Wickham was grinning like a cat who has done something exceedingly clever, tipping the last milk jug in the larder, or catching the lady of the house's favorite pet canary. "But then, I imagine you know that. You must be feeling it still. How sad. The love of your life finds you an arrogant, conceited toad. So sad." And he pulled a mock sad face, taunting for all he was worth, feeling the laughter bubbling just below the surface. Darcy, clearly at his limits, placed his hands on the mantle and leaned out over the fire, every line of his body rigid and tortured, his head bowed under the strain. The knuckles were white with strain. Wickham felt a rush of heady power. So this was what it was like to tempt fate.

"Wickham," Darcy snapped viciously, rage making him tremble just enough that Wickham could watch his fire-cast shadow shimmer on the opposite wall. "Shut up."

Wickham laughed and straightened from his bent pose, strolling amiably over to one of the armchairs facing the glowing hearth and settling neatly into it, watching Darcy's face now from this new angle. Up close, he could now see the barely restrained rage, grief, and confusion there that twisted the handsome countenance into a rictus of agony. In those eyes, the fire of the love-struck and forsaken burned bright and hot. The sight sent a thrill of pleasure through him. They stayed there a moment, Darcy fighting his own longing and grief, Wickham chuckling to himself at the other's pain, as each adapted to this new turn in their long game. Then Darcy straightened up off of the mantle, slowly, as if he were already a bitter old man. His face smoothed back to stony coldness, with only the feverish fire in his eyes to betray his inner war.

"You will receive your money after the wedding. I am a man of my word. Good night." And with that, Darcy turned abruptly on his heel and strode out of the room as fast as he could go. He was chased all the way by the raucous laughter of his archenemy, out into the night. He found no peace in it.

When Darcy had gone, Wickham relaxed back into his armchair with easy delight, feeling better than he had in many a year. So old Darcy was in love, eh? With the sister of Wickham's dear fiance, no less. How rich! Idly, Wickham noticed that Darcy, in his haste, had left his oaken pipe sitting on the small table in front of the fire. Leaning forward, he reached over and grabbed the thing, turning it over and over in his hands, stroking the fine carvings. The work of a master craftsman, this. It had obviously been very expensive. And it was still lit.

Wickham raised the pipe to his lips and inhaled deeply, savoring the taste of the expensive tobacco that only some one like Darcy could afford. It tasted like triumph. With glee, he mentally thanked Darcy for giving him this taste of his future fortune, so nicely in advance, and also for the gift of a nice new pipe. Raising it up as if in a salute, he declared delightedly to the empty room, a smugly content smirk on his face.

"To Lydia Bennet! My beautiful, blushing bride! And to Fitzwilliam Darcy! My worst enemy, and future brother-in-law! May you both make me rich beyond my wildest dreams!"

His laughter rang out long into the London night.


End file.
